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The drive from Worthington, Mass into northern Vermont is a familiar one. I was born here and grew up there. I was married here, raised children there. I-91 is like a groove in my skin, the way your palm wrinkles when you hold a thing tightly. On this road, I first noticed my father's hands looked old against the steering wheel. I hitched my first ride to Boston, Albany, Providence, Rhode Island. Two years ago, late Fall, I pulled over near Mount Ascutney, got out, and shouted what the fuck am I doing with my life?
The highway gray and beckoning a finger pointing north